


#ClexaWeek2017 Submissions

by Arkeis07



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternative Canon, ClexaWeek2017, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fic Challenge, Hurt/Comfort, Roommates, stuck together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9979961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkeis07/pseuds/Arkeis07
Summary: (Also posted to tumblr @oxymoronicalism )My submissions for Clexa Week 2017.1. Enemies to Lovers (canon)  2. Roommates (standing up to the landlord)  3. Stuck Together (natblida hair-braiding prank) 4. Fake Dating (surfers) 5. Alternative Canon (Refuge on the oil rig; hurt/comfort)





	1. Monday: Enemies to Lovers

1\. Enemies to Lovers

(Canon-compliant) Times in the woods where Lexa changes her mind about Clarke, and one time in Polis where Clarke changes her mind about Lexa.

I.

Demanding to be shown the power of the Skaikru in resurrecting reapers, Lexa and her guard travel through the forest with Clarke always in sight. Her light wheat hair makes her easy to track between the dark shades of forest and fog. This strange creature vexes the Commander, claiming mythical powers and killing so many in so swift a blow. With little fear, the sky leader walked into Lexa’s tent and hand-delivered Anya’s memory and a truce.

 

A river flows nearby. The Commander’s head is suddenly too full, and she calls for a calabash and orders the procession to hold. 

 

Anya’s braid pulls heavy in the pocket at Lexa’s chest.She lets her people watch Clarke as the skyperson crouches over slippery river rock to gather drink in her palms. Lexa turns away to address a sturdy hardwood, arched over the river bend. For just a few moments, Lexa holds the braid in her hand, staring hard at the mossy-lain bark. 

 

Clarke of the Sky People, who crashed through the clouds and landed at Lexa’s feet, is nearby now and looks at the Commander as if she knows what a harbinger of loss is the sky falling down. Her eyes, though still quite wary, carry a sadness that is wasted in Lexa’s direction. Lexa narrows her eyes.

 

“I - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to - .”

 

“ _Hoz op_! _”_ Lexa commands and as a mass, her people stagger into place and already Clarke is being pushed onward, away from Lexa.

 

They walk, closer to Clarke’s own salvation or destruction, depending on the truth of her tales. Clarke holds herself tight, keeps her eyes open and ahead. Lexa’s hand rests easy at the hilt of her sword, the sway of it a comfort. The walk for a time further through the forest.

 

Lexa meets Clarke’s strides to check the distance again, and Clarke claims the destination is near. “Anya was strong,” Clarke says louder, as Lexa slows to turn away. Clarke continues, “She was a great warrior. She saved my life, and very nearly took it… I’m sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry for interrupting your goodbye earlier.”

 

Lexa works her jaw and avoids Clarke’s eyes. Seeing the thinning trees alerts her to a cleared area up ahead. A waiting field of 300 goodbyes. Lexanods, “Keep walking.”

 

II. 

They escape the pauna but exhaustion limits their journey’s pace.

 

Clarke of the Sky is more adept at building a fire than Lexa would have expected. Clarke speaks of earth sciences and old books as she gathers tinder from a fallen bird’s nest and strikes a stone against the small piece of flint from Lexa’s pouch. The warmth of the fire eases the discomfort of Lexa’s injured shoulder, and during the few minutes of silence that lays between them, Lexa observes a familiar weed beneath a canopy of decomposing overgrowth. 

 

Standing, Lexa crosses the fire and digs at the earth with the heel of her boot. A minute later, she toes out a small tuber. She lets Clarke skin it with her knife, and they split it to warm at the fireside. It is bitter, with a mild aftertaste. Clarke sinks to the ground with her fatigue, and Lexa assures her watch while Clarke rests. In still moments, Lexa’s eyes wander between the orange fire pit and the yellow of Clarke’s hair. Silence surrounds them, for now.

 

_I was wrong about you, Clarke. Your heart shows no sign of weakness._

 

 

III.

Upon returning to TonDC, Lexa has a healer wrap Clarke’s ankle in a salve and cloth. Negotiations are slow-coming but to Lexa clarity is finally making itself known, as the common enemy of the Mountain surpasses the missteps made by the descendants of the sky. Bellamy’s subterfuge is the only way to cripple the castle.

 

Lexa dismisses her generals when their bickering aches Lexa’s head. Stepping out into the late evening, she finds Clarke behind the structure, at the edge of the forest, drawing something on a small piece of parched paper. As Lexa nears, Clarke nods at the drying herb that she sketches,“Your healer’s plant is a miracle.” It hangs, with bundles of others, from a line between the corner of the structure and a tree. “I’ve already got some range of motion back in my ankle. I’ll be ready to ride to our camp by the morning.”

 

“The leaves can calm headaches, when brewed with the oils of a purple flower from the mountainside.” 

 

“Your generals are cause enough that I would suggest keeping a flask of it on hand.”

 

And perhaps it’s because Lexa thinks the same, a chuckle escapes her lips. Feeling generous, Lexa gestures for Clarke to share her sketch. “It is an important medicine for our people,” Lexa draws thick, full leaves at the margin of Clarke’s paper, ”It would benefit you to recognize its mature leaf. They grow thick in large clearings near evergreens.”

 

Clarke studies the image Lexa drew. “Thank you,” she nods, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

IV. MOUNTAIN

They are waiting, forever it seems, for Bellamy’s signal. Clarke’s exit and her calling Lexa a liar left the air feeling warm and onerous. Lexa paced and studied the war table until she could no longer stand it. The symbol at Lexa’s brow is heavy where her thoughts crinkle, so she relents to the fresher air outside her tent, the wafts of stews and roasting herbs of supper in the camp compelling her sudden hunger.

 

Kneeling at a ground fire pit several tents away, Clarke shreds a piece of her dried meat and gnaws her teeth around it. Lexa observes the young gona sitting beside the fire next to her, point to the meat and presumably makes a comment about it. Clarke nods but then her eyes narrow, and she reaches for the gona’s arm. She struggles to unwrap a discolored bandage around his wrist.

 

Someone excuses themselves and hands Lexa a bent-tin cup, steaming with stew. Lexa holds it to warm her hands, but her eyes don’t leave the exchange at the fire.

 

The gona’s deer-jaw face mask dangles by a cord around his neck, and it jostles when he shakes his head at whatever Clarke has told him. She looks concerned and formidable, and she holds her hand out to him. He rustles in his coat, presents her his knife.

 

Lexa’s heavy brow crinkles further as she watches Clarke pour water over the knife, then hold it to the fire. Confusion slips away however as Clarke steadies the blade against the gona’s wound, which is obviously off-color even from where Lexa stands. With a healer’s steady hands, Clarke dips the tip in and the gona grinds his teeth over his growl. By now a small crowd has closed in, and they hurl jests at the young warrior. On the gentle tip of the knife, Clarke excavates something small and black from the blood of the wound, then presses a bandage handed to her by one in the crowd to the man’s arm. A camp healer has stepped behind Clarke, to whom Clarke makes a gesture of threading bone needle, and the healer nods. A friend of the gona holds his arm out to Clarke. She lifts her eyebrows in acknowledgment, then lifts her knees from the ground and grabs his forearm with pull. Then she walks towards the woods.

 

That Clarke would risk their secret for the depth of her feelings and her trust in Octavia is confusing to Lexa. Clarke is confusing to Lexa. But she sees a knowledge in Clarke’s eyes that Lexa feels desperate to know too.  


When she calls Clarke back to tell her that Octavia is safe, Lexa ends up trying to seek that knowledge through Clarke’s lips. What she finds is something even more enchanting.

 

V. POLIS 

 

_“I’m sorry,”_ Lexa whispers with Clarke’s knife at her throat. Instantly, Clarke’s heart impales itself upon its own blade, and her will is gone, slipped through her fingers as does the weapon to the floor.

 

“I never meant to turn you into this…”

 

It reminds Clarke of the little shreds of herself she clings to, makes her wonder if she’ll ever get back what’s she’s lost, shouting into the nihilist chasms within her, echoing her meaningless struggle to survive on the ground. But she somehow gathers herself, tries to remember the fire with which her heart protects her people, and tells Lexa to wait. Tells Lexa that she agrees with the new terms of the summit.

 

“Wanheda is feared and respected amongst all the clans. Your strength will hold the coalition firmer together.” Lexa steps closer when Clarke unintentionally shrugs. “You’re special, Clarke. You fell from the sky to slay the Mountain, your legend eluded capture for months…”

 

Lexa trails off, so Clarke finds a window to stare at, not really registering the evergreens and blue mountains in the distance. She feels Lexa’s hand on her arm, though. Clarke doesn’t look, but doesn’t step away either.

 

“Not a day went by that I didn’t wonder for you.”

 

Intense with guilt and anger and loneliness, Clarke’s neck goes hot. “I could not forget you. I _tried to._ ”

 

The sun sets on that day, and with it comes the birth of the 13th clan, Skaikru. And just as soon as it is born, so does it suffer its first painful breath. Lives are snuffed out as Mount Weather is destroyed, and the Azgeda delegation is arrested.

 

With moonrise high, the Commander kneels at the dust red carpet in the middle of her throne room.

 

_“I swear fealty to you, Clarke kom Skaikru. I vow to treat your needs as my own, and your people as my people._ ”

 

Clarke’s hand is warm where she holds Lexa’s. The softness of her eyes erodes at the hard stone of guilt, and anger, and loneliness within Clarke. When Lexa stands as Clarke’s equal, Clarke’s heart burns brighter with that protective fire she wasn’t sure survived.


	2. Tuesday: Roommates - "Standing up to the Landlord"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~1400 words. I struggled with this one but ultimately I think it's ok. Tell me I'm wrong in the comments, though. Kisses.

****

**Clarke 3:25pm:** I CANNOT, FOR ONE MORE DAY, 

LIVE WITH THIS COLD ASS SHOWER.

**Clarke:** Its FREEZING and the solar IS NOT

doing its job, and I NEED to work out 

these kinks in my shoulders.

**Clarke:** This will not stand.

**Lexa 3:27pm:** you sound stressed.

**Clarke 3:27pm:** IM SO STRESSED IM IN ART SCHOOL

**Lexa 3:28pm:**   we’ll get through.

**Lexa:** let me touch your shoulders later

**Clarke 3:30pm:** This is a landlord problem.

We have to fight this guy.

**Lexa 3:31pm:** Oh you mean the guy that still

hasn’t come round to extend the internet? 

**Lexa:** The guy that refused to pay for the 

heater replacement bc someone likes it 

tropical?

**Clarke 3:33:** 75F is hardly tropical. I hate cold you know that.

 

 

They share a small and overpriced rental near the center of town, in the top floor of a Victorian home at the top of a hill. The view is great, the city gleams as with firelight in the sunset, and Sunday morning yoga and breakfast dates in their living room is a ritual Clarke will never willingly give up. But they just have the WORST landlord.

Clarke lets Lexa rub her shoulders that night, straddling her swivel chair while topless and staring at her charcoal landscape on vellum. She’ll put a photograph of Yosemite that she took last summer underneath it, hoping for a lifting and engaging affect. It’s one of her features for the exhibition next week.

Lexa uses the blade of her hand to dig under Clarke’s shoulder blades. “He definitely thinks we’re illicit lovers who have ruined someone’s marriage and are living in sin. Turning your bedroom into an art studio and us sharing the single really tripped him out.”

“This landlord’s in the wrong city if he thinks two young, beautiful, _passionate_ roommates with _no_ time to date won’t give each other birthday sex.”

Lexa raises her eyebrows and nods, “or drunken New Year’s sex.”

“Or general stress relief sex.” Clarke winds her arm back behind her to give Lexa more shoulder to work with, “Oh speaking of, I heard you commanding some people over the phone last night, everything all right?”

“Just some mistakes from people trying to get things ok’d up top. Mr. Roan may be the beefcake poster-boy for his energy drink empire, but I’m the one who basically runs the operation for him. He’s a puppet king.” 

 

The replacement kitchen space heater is tucked beneath a bar countertop, the stools there draped in various items of the roommates’ outerwear. A jacket and longer coat, a dusty red scarf, a knitted beanie dangling off the stool backrest.

On a chalkboard next to the fridge, Clarke has put up an internet inspirational quote

( _when it rains look for rainbows,_

_when it’s dark look for stars_ )

and arced wide chalky strokes of red, yellow, green and blue beneath it. In the corner, Lexa has chalked a little comic of a stick rainbow-watcher holding an umbrella that is about to be shocked by a single lightning bolt.

Oven-fired clay bowls atop a simple reclaimed wood dresser near the front door and act as deposits for keys and wallets. Framed photographs are staggered between the bowls, Clarke and Lexa, together on a camping trip, pointing at the horizon; standing in the glow of a massive concert, faces painted with spirals and stars, a tiny gear like Lexa’s third eye drawn by Clarke and outfits fashioned from tatters and thrift-store finds by Lexa. In a third frame, Lexa and her best friend Anya have their arms around jump-suited Clarke in the middle of a grassy field, Clarke’s face ecstatic from her first jump out of a plane, her certificate clutched tightly in her hands (neither Anya nor Lexa would join her).

A chart of necessary bills and chores and groceries spans the width of the refrigerator (which makes a weird rumbling sound at night), and written in the freebie spot in alarming red is:

STAND UP TO THE LANDLORD

 

“System is good for ten years, they said. You should take shorter showers, you run through all the hot water,” is the landlord’s answer to their request to address the water heater.

Lexa holds her jaw tight, “We pay a higher rent because you installed the panels not even a month after we first moved in, but we agreed because we think renewable energy is important. But if the water heater is not heating, then we are paying for nothing.”

Clarke, arms crossed, shakes her head behind Lexa, “It’s February, Pike, we need it fixed.”

He makes excuses but eventually leaves with a promise that he’ll make a call. Clarke’s suspicious eyes follow his retreat all the way down the staircase to the garage.

 

A full three days of the normal daily grind goes by, and Clarke can no longer avoid taking a lukewarm shower. Grumbling, she steals the ladder from the garage and precariously leans it against the wet roof. Lexa, dressed finely in high-powered assistant’s wear, holds the base for her as she climbs to the top.

Lexa hears Clarke scoff. “I knew it.”

“What?”

“There’s a bunch of leaves mucking up the bottom of two of the panels. Whatever sunlight we’ve been getting, it’s missing half the charge.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I mean I guess if I just… move this shit.” Wet leaf litter is toed off the roof at the back corner.

“Lets go test the water,” Clarke says as she steps off the ladder, mission complete.

“It’s probably gonna need a few hours.”

“Fine. Tonight when you’re back from ruling the energy drink domain, I’ll run a hot bath for you.”

“My kingdom for a bubblebath,” Lexa moans.

 

A week later, Lexa comes home from work to find Clarke, deep in a mood.

“Look. “ The blonde gestures to the countertop, where a letter sits unfolded.

“Did the letter make you angry?”

“It’s gonna make you angry too.”

“…..”

“It’s not right,” Clarke chews through her teeth.

“God damn right it’s not,” Lexa throws down the letter with disgust.

“He can’t raise the rent that much, we won’t be able to afford groceries,” Lexa’s brow crinkles.

“We’re good tenants, we’ve been here for almost two years; he wants to just run us out?“

“And you even fixed the solar panel!”

“I fixed the solar panel!”

But Pike dusts his hands and claims rising costs in the economy, maintenance that’s overdue for the house (Clarke huffs and rolls her eyes), and the price hikes for rentals all over the city.

  

Corners of the house start to draw melancholy gazes from the roommates. The thought of moving away from the unfinished balcony where they drink tea and on New Year’s danced under fireworks pulls at Lexa’s heart. Clarke is distracted from her sketching by a splash of blue paint on her wall, a miscalculated fling by Lexa during Clarke’s “Polluck Explosive” end-of-finals party last year. The speckled tapestry that resulted from that party hangs in the living room, where Clarke braids Lexa’s hair whenever she has an industry party to attend in the city. Lexa is in the kitchen now, and can almost smell the ash from burning pancake batter on the griddle that is a staple of their Sunday mornings.

What she actually smells, and then hears in form of the piercing alarm, is the fire set in Pike’s kitchen at the bottom of the building, where his elderly mother left a potholder too close to the burner that was boiling water for tea. Clarke is quick to pop her head out of her studio, and together they descend the staircase outside and round the corner to Pike’s door, and through the window they already see the black smoke. Pike’s mother stands frightened at the corner of the kitchen, and Lexa bounds up the landing to crash through the door. Lexa douses the flame with a bowl from the sink, while Clarke comforts and calms Pike’s mom.

When Pike returns he is presented with the undeniable debt that he owes to his renters, and through perhaps the most civil conversation they’ve had since before they signed the lease agreement, Lexa and Clarke walk away with their rent stabilized and the home they’ve come to love despite its flaws, safe.

Back upstairs, Lexa pushes away her tablet and emails as she sits back down on the couch. She leans her head to side and stretches her neck, revealing a hint of her infinity tattoo at the base of her hair line. Clarke wants to trace it.

“Hey is it normal to feel turned on after you save the day?”


	3. Wednesday: Stuck Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *this is a crazy idea but its for hump day so anything goes right?   
> Natblida hair-braiding prank pure fluff and grounder culture musings (~1100words)

yea idk 

* * *

 

Kneeling over, Lexa peers around to Clarke’s face, seeing that she sleeps on her crossed arms over the low table brought to the center of the throne room. Clarke sleeps with the exhaustion of peace-making and war-staving, and her body is warm where it is starting to lean against Lexa’s side. Turning back to her natblida, she points to a bend in a river, darkly drawn over yellowing and curling paper, and Aden, nearest her, answers swiftly with the river’s name, the boundary it marks and the site of a pass in the flow, which can become rapid from winter snowmelt and would take many lives if crossed before the floods finish.

Lexa gives Aden a nod and then fixes her eyes to Kassia, the girl’s hair braided neatly at her back and her chocolate eyes watching Aden. They blink to attention when Lexa walks her finger to the flood plains, and taps three times there, signaling for a historical event.

Kassia chews her lip and stares hard at the mark, and with confident words, recalls the memory of the Azgeda defeat under a swift Heda from the rivers. Lexa sees Heda Kailah, fierce as his mighty coursing river, toss his floating lightwood board into the shallow river bank and quickly leaps to propel the board through the waves. The Azgeda armies are swept underfoot, and Kailah’s River Riders bob and spin with paddles and spears, unassailable, as their enemies are plucked like fish.

The memory is electric within Lexa’s mind, and she is pleased to see Kassia shimmer, as though she could almost see the same silvery vision. Lexa voices her pleasure and Kassia sighs a hefty laugh, revealing her nerves.

Clarke shifts slightly behind her, her shoulder crawling itself more firmly across the table. Lexa, moving at the same time, slides her feet out from underneath her and uses Clarke as a backrest. She puts her hand down beneath the table between them, and her fingers feel the frayed edges of Clarke’s pants where they reveal her ankles.

Clarke’s sketchbook is open to what she was working on before sleep took her, and the mountain landscape, misty from dusty charcoal and covered in dark evergreen shapes, invites Lexa’s mind to wander to the mountain trail outside her home village. Feeling nostalgic, she looks across at the novitiates, finding most of them poured intently over field maps and the genealogies that Lexa wrote for them. It is perhaps under this threat of war that they work so hard, and Lexa, very briefly, imagines a time where peace is stable and the natblida can learn more about the artistry of their people, the fine crafts and trades and skills and creations of beauty that come from within one’s soul. She wonders if Aden would like to draw with Clarke.

 

She is pulled back to reality, quite literally, by a tug at her hair.

Behind her, Elija, the youngest, gently pulls again at Lexa’s braid. Lexa narrows her eyes in question rather than annoyance, and he answers, “So I can study it, Heda.”

The braids of gona often are interwoven with versatile symbols of victories, or family heritages, anything from the medicinal flower of particular field to the durable salvaged paracord that is rare but coveted amongst crafty and ingenious fingers.

Elija makes his case: “The previous Commander had a woven paracord line split between 5 of his braids, and within each of those cords were five smaller cords, and in those, 3 tiny threads, strong enough to sew skin together.”

“Ena?”

“Well, Heda, it is said he killed his enemy, secured a shelter that withstood a thunderous storm, _and_ sealed his wounds shut, with just two braids.”

“And what legend are you looking for in _my_ hair?”

“If your paracord is long enough, perhaps we could fashion Klark a braid? She is like fisa, maybe the threads will be useful someday.”

“You wish me to cut my braid for Clarke?”

“You seem close.” He shrugs at Clarke, sleeping and leaning against Lexa.

It must be Clarke’s exhaustion seeping into Lexa’s body, it must be the the warmth of the fire at the hearth, the orange glow of the sky. It must be Lexa surrounded by all these important lives she fights for, and it must be the gentle smile Aden has at his lips, because Heda waves for Elija to go on, and his light fingers start to weave and pull at her head. The idea of sharing cord with Clarke makes Lexa’s stomach warm. 

Lexa rolls her wrists towards her, beckoning the nightbloods to listen, and she begins to recite the funeral rites of her home village, listening for the chants of wind-lifted souls flying to the treetops, the funeral pyres at the mountain arch, the paper and stick lanterns that float away into the night sky. A Coalition leader would do well to remember that death is a connecting element of life.

It must be because Lexa has allowed herself to immerse so fully into her memory, because she is slow to realize the focused stares of her natblida are distracted by mirth in the corners, and there are soft giggles coming from behind her. 

 

She tries to turn swiftly, but is stopped for the pain and Clarke’s sudden yelp.

“What the hell is this?” Clarke sounds bewildered and somewhat helpless, blinking almost accusingly at Lexa. Lexa passes the look on to Elija. “This is not what you were meant to be doing.”

The braiding of their hair together is simple and just requires Lexa’s long fingers to dig and sweep through them, but their are drier parts that twist to each other and prick little pains into Lexa’s scalp. Clarke runs her hand through her wheat hair and scratches at the back of her head, giving her a somewhat sheepish manner.

“And what, brave Elija, made you to believe you could so deceive your Commander?” Lexa’s eyes lower but her voice lilts from the smile in the corner of her mouth.

“Well, Wanheda was asleep and Heda was speaking of her home again. I took the chance you would be too elsewhere to notice.”

“Ifi, Elija. Were I stern teacher you would be missing a finger.”

“Sha, Heda.”

“But he got you, so he was right,” Clarke says with her palm supporting her chin.

“ _Sha_ , he did.” Lexa spanks at Elija but he expects it, and nimbly escapes back to the others. Aden high-fives him and Lexa shares the glare Elija earned.

Clarke pulls her sketchbook back beneath her gaze as Lexa readjusts her knees beneath the table. Still close, Clarke runs her finger to the tip of a lock of her yellow hair, and with a lowered gaze that just reaches Lexa’s eyes, Clarke gives her a bemused smile. Lexa’s stomach grows warmer.


	4. Thursday: Fake Dating: PCH Cruising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa recruits Clarke as her Girlfriend in order to avoid unwanted attention on surf trip down the California coastline, but she learns that maybe talking about our feelings and being direct with people is a good way to communicate (lol i guess im not familiar)
> 
> ~3,000 words this one got long bc i love surfing lol. Also you guys get a playlist! Tracks are sprinkled throughout but here’s the links all together.
> 
> blackbird blackbird - Pure -  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2XcxKc7jlRg
> 
> chrome sparks - marijuana -  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NN41klNPKvA
> 
> Jaden Smith - PCH -  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjSrWX7_7BY
> 
> M83 - Reunion (White Sea Remix) -  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGuIxFpPqfg

**PCH CRUISING**

The rental car, rooftop down and pretty-girl hair trailing in the slipstream, curls south down the highway, endless ocean to the right and a road ahead that feels like it could just cross right on through borders to dive at the southern most point of the continent. Endless escape, that’s what this road symbolizes; California 1, Pacific Coast Highway, Cabrillo H.W.Y. 

Waves crash inexorably against the shore, kissing it forever, never mind how the ocean is always sent away.

The van behind them holds her sister’s boyfriend’s kru and all the boards; a boy gang to match Anya’s girls. The weekend surf trip was to be the event of the summer for Lexa, but when Anya told her that Lincoln’s bruh Jackson was coming along, her mind launched into crisis management.

Jackson is a boy whose eyes are always lingering too long on Lexa’s back, a boy who shouts in the parking lot at dudes that ticked him off in the lineup, a boy who struts in front of girls with his chocolate surfer’s body and thinks he has a chance with Lexa ( _he does not_ ).

Clarke, a true friend visiting from SF, holds her hand now in the back seat, and while the blonde is laughing beautifully at something Octavia yelled over the wind, Lexa wonders how nice it might be to have a (very new) girlfriend for the weekend. Still open-mouthed and pearly-grinned, Clarke nods to Lexa’s left, and her eyes beneath her dark-gradient shades are mirthful and look as if they are sharing a secret. Lexa turns to see Jackson and Malek aiming their hand-held camera poles out the van windows, devouring the scenery of pretty summer girls cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway. Lincoln maneuvers the van into the opposite lane, empty for now but still holding its thrill, as the road lays open on a straightaway.

Lexa leans her head back, throws up peace fingers, and Clarke moves closer to her, her own peace hands shooting up in the air. When they come back down, Clarke’s arm lays itself over Lexa’s shoulder, holding her close, and Clarke presses her mouth to the side of Lexa’s wind-whirled head.

 

_“Only just the weekend?” Clarke winks as she accepts her mug from the barista at the counter, her latte etched with a maple leaf._

_Lexa groans, “I mean hopefully he’ll get the hint soon enough, but if I wanted to put you on Girlfriend retainer, what’s your going rate?”_

_Clarke laughs easy and loud and bumps her shoulder into Lexa, their new matching college sweatshirts scratching against skin, making it warm._

_“He can’t be that bad, can he? You’ve told him you’re not interested and he’s still at it?”_

_“Well, ok,” Lexa palms the air. “I made the mistake of kissing him at a party a few weeks ago.”_

_“Oh. Hmm. Well I think I know why he’s trying to bang…”_

_“You can judge me if you want, it was impulsive and dumb. But I like kissing, and it was his idea. But since then it’s been more aggressive, him trying to link up. I think he thinks I’m playing hard to get.”_

_“… but you still haven’t just told him - “_

_“Look are you gonna be my fake girlfriend or nah,” Lexa holds out her hand. Clarke shakes._

 

The surf curls below the cliffs in enticing parallels, and it takes a minute of debate where to park to the van, but then the parking brake is engaged, the back door is hatched, and then Malek leads the boys in removing each board and laying them along the highway railing in the noon sunlight. The gang hops and shimmies into their wetsuits and then en masse, the convoy descends the narrow goat trail to the rocky shoreline beneath. Underwater seamounts buffet the waves into beautiful 4 feet curls shared by the lone seven bodies in the water. There is something [pure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2XcxKc7jlRg) in the sparkle of the California sun and the westerly winds raking through canopies of kelp forests in the wash.

Lexa’s _whole thing_ on this trip is to get as many barrels as she can, and Anya and Octavia woop loudly when she gets her first chance, in the form of a hollowing arc that comes right to her. Lexa’s arms dig for deep handfuls of water, thrusting them out behind her, with her hips jostling and legs binding together like with invisible string. The rumbling grows louder in her ears and the sheen of light on the water passes faster and faster beneath her, and she is lifted.

Proudly, Lexa thrusts her chest forward and crouches her body over her board, gripping the right rail hard and leaning harder left when she dips the bottom. Her board follows a speedy angle along the wave, but she’s still just a hair’s breath from being within the roaring centrifuge behind her.

She trails her fingers in the wall of the wave, then slides her hand in, and tucking low, she slips with control into the maw of water, just under the cascading lip. The blue room is too small to stand, but Lexa’s knees don’t mind; she drops the back one and leans further down the nose. Holding her hands loose in front of her, Lexa lets out her usual howl of adrenaline; oh how it echoes.

 

They grab massive burritos afterward and share a cloud of [marijuana](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NN41klNPKvA)  at the back of the board van in a parking lot, before continuing their chasing of the dipping sun. Octavia takes a turn behind the wheel while Anya is free to snap film shots of the coastline with the Nikon Lexa got her for her birthday. But Octavia likes speed so Anya soon gives up that pursuit and instead glances back at Lexa every now and then, something knowing in her eyes. Lexa doesn’t see it though because Clarke’s hair is course with sea salt and she lets Lexa runs her fingers through it slowly. Clarke lays her head in Lexa’s lap and stretches her feet out the side, wiggling her toes through the wind.

 

_“So we’re just gonna do some PDA in between surfs and assume he’ll fall in line?” Clarke’s voice is doubtful over the line, but she’s already signed up, so Lexa rolls her eyes as she rolls onto her back on her bed, messy with her as yet unpacked go bag for the weekend._

_“He’s Lincoln’s best friend, and I’d like to avoid causing drama with the boyfriend of Octavia, who’s about 85% ready to throw down at any given moment.”_

_“I, too, am a pacifist so I see where you’re coming from. Did she tell you she hurled a serving fork at some guy that was shushing his date for crying in a some multi-star restaurant in LA?”_

_Lexa’s eyes widen and she puts the phone closer to her ear, curling on her side. “Wooow. Maybe I should be glad we’re not close enough yet for that to casually come up in conversation.”_

_“On the contrary, I think you’re missing out. Anyway, she’s banned from that restaurant.”_

 

The weather is mild in the evening when they build their bonfire on the beach, hidden successfully (hopefully) by the shadows of cliffs. An abundance of alcohol and cannabis smoke colors the vibe of the campout, woven blankets draped over the sand and couples holding hands, save for Jackson. Jackson cradles his guitar instead.

And Jackson, for all his bravado and cock-shuffling, is genuinely skillful with his guitar. He’s less braggadocios with it as a shield, and when Clarke asks him if he’s recorded anything, he shrugs and keeps his eyes at his fluttering G B and A chords. “Just basic stuff, really. Itʻs not as consistent as Iʻd like to be; if I had more time, yʻknow, maybe. Stuff like dat. But I like jamming with friends, mostly.”

“Thatʻs noble,” Lexa remarks. Jackson laughs loudly because “Noble? Thatʻs rad, nobodyʻs called me that before, hah. How so, sweetheart?” Jackson leans over his guitar, his hand trying to cup an explanation. Lexa purses her lips and nods, “Friendship is, yʻknow. Community, creating music or art together. _Jamming with friends,_ itʻs like, thatʻs whatʻs important.”

Jackson cracks up again, and so does the group, their eyes either closed or looking rather fondly at Lexaʻs spiritual naked awakening. Lexa frowns.

“I mean you’re not doing it for the money or fame.”

“Money’s nice though, I’d like to do it for some money. You got some money for this private concert? Jackson flourishes a melody right to Lexa. The group collectively _ooo’s_ and Lexa scoffs.

“OK yea, _whatever_ , but like, _people_ are all so different but weʻre actually _so the same_ and when you can get a bunch of different people working together and not killing each other it just fucking _works better,_ and you all know it, so mic drop.”

Clarke’s hand seems to be trying to stabilize her own giggles by pressing her palm closer to Lexa’s lower back. “Lexa, you canʻt just say ‘mic drop’, you have to do the,” Clarkeʻs empty hand peeks out from under their shared blanket huddle to drop a microphone. “See? Right? Go ahead, try again,” she gently teases.

“Oh my _god.”_ In the firelight Lexaʻs cheeks glow red, but everyone else is getting there too, whether from wheezing or alcoholic arteries.

 

Jacksonʻs guitar falls into a steady circle of F G and A minor, and when the group settles he says, “So Iʻm gonna play something about this [highway](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjSrWX7_7BY).”

_really we just PCH crusin’ / my girl she snoozin’ / she was all night boozin’_

 

Jackson palms his guitar on a 4/4 beat, and his voice drops low, enunciating at the points where his toes tap in the sand. He nods at Clarke and Lexa, “Sing this part: _gimme all ya kisses baby, cuz this is bliss, gimme all ya kisses, ba-by.”_

He plays a lead for them, and Clarke is already bobbing her head to Jacksonʻs time, “ _Gimme all ya kisses…”_ Clarke squeezes Lexaʻs hand, and Lexa joins her, “… _this is bliss, gimme all ya kisses baby…”_

Lexaʻs voice is smoky, her breath smolders in her throat, vibrating low against Clarkeʻs breast. The wind picks up, and Clarke wraps her blanket tighter around them both. Clarkeʻs singing is okay, but she keeps giggling after a while, because Lincoln and Octavia have started dancing rather primally in the sand, and Lincoln likes to crouch and pounce around Octavia. Octavia keeps him captured by the swish of her hips. When Jackson takes to his rhymes again, Lincoln has enticed Octavia to a nearby drift tree trunk, where he does a running wall flip up and over, landing easy in the sand. Lexa claps loudly and moves to join them in the lesson.

The evening passes quickly as excitement dwindles into sleepyness. Clarke’s tent pops up quickly, and Lexa moves their blankets inside. Clarke lays down next to Lexa, who remarks how the wind picked up, and Clarke agrees.She also curls her arm over Lexa’s waist, and Lexa curls herself into Clarke’s chest. She wonders how she might stay there forever.

 

But morning comes and with it the bummer feeling of a shoulder slept-on-wrong. Lexa is the first to rise and as such makes a leisurely round of the camp, assessing damage collecting discarded bottles. She tosses what she finds in a pile near the ashed fire pit, and wakes Jackson in the process. Anya and Malek sleep late with rum dreams or perhaps they didn’t much sleep at all, but a round of bananas and peanut butter bagels fuels the rest of the kru for packing up and heading out. Clarke lets Lexa lie down in the back seat this time, massaging her cranky shoulder.

Saturday they hit the southernmost point of the trip, and the water isn’t much warmer but there’s more actitivty in the ocean. In the still early morning the sea breeze is absent, and perfect chest-high rollers rise up shiny and only break their gleam when gravity forces them to.

Clarke likes to launch airs. She might be trying to reach the sky, the way she corks her body like a spring and rockets off the lip. She’s got fire in her paddle and starlight in her smile, whenever she glides back from a wave.

Anya and Malek keep tradition alive with their single-fins, flowing gracefullytail-to-nose in happy little steps along the face of the waves. Lexa will savagely protect her sister from any wrong-doer but Malek seems to be caring gentleman cake with not only the icing of a charming personality, but the cherry of being a natural waterman. On a dare he takes off skegs-first on the shoulder of a shoulder-high wave, but he hops gracefully to his feet, sinks his weight slyly to turn the board with the flow of the wave, and nimbly walks from nose to tail, adjusting course and realigning himself in a sleek carve. Lexa couldn’t possibly argue against that kind of man.

 

On the drive back up north sunday, they stop to surf just once. The weekend catching up to her, Lexa comes in a little early and plops herself in the fine brown sand that stretches off into the distance on either side. 

Jackson paddles in and makes a beeline for Lexa. Lexa shifts her gaze to either end of the beach, but there is no shelter or distraction. Jackson plops next to her and shares his post-surf smile, which Lexa returns because it’s easy.

“So like. You’re not afraid to be alone with me, or anything, are you?”

“What?” Lexa balks.

“It just seems like you’ve been avoiding me this whole trip.”

“No, no, I mean, I have Clarke here, “ she gestures to the water, where Clarke still plays, “y’know…”

“No I get that, yea. You’re dating, that’s cool. I mean I’m a little bummed, but Clarke is cool for sure.” He digs to pile up a little pyramid of sand next to his foot. “I just wanted to make sure I’m not scaring you, or anything. You haven’t really talked to me all weekend.”

“I… I guess I didn’t realize I was.”

“Do you even like guys?” he abruptly asks. “Or was I being a dumbass for a few weeks?”

“Jeez, Jackson, that’s a hard question to answer. And not the one you want to hear, probably.”

“Hmm,” he swipes away the cap of his pyramid.

Lexa purses her lips and realizes Clarke is right.Being direct would probably be the better course.

“Look, Jackson, I shouldn’t have kissed you at Anya’s party. You’re a cool guy and you don’t deserve to be led on.” His eyes don’t lift from the sand but he says, “I ‘preciate that.”

“But I will say that I didn't feel too bad because I figured you’d be combing the beach for another girl soon enough.”

“That’s… I mean dat’s accurate but it makes me sound like tool, which I ain’t down with.”

“Is that not what tools do?”

“I don’t know you well enough for us to be havin’ _this_ conversation.”

“Well, ok. Maybe we can just keep this casually friendly then.”

“I mean that’s what I was after in the first place.”

Lexa narrows her eyes and holds up her hand, delicately halting and questioning that remark.

Jackson shrugs, “ _One_ of the things I was after.”

 

The kru ambles out of the water when hunger takes over, and this time they find a parking lot with food trucks. Lexa doesn’t tell Clarke of the conversation on the beach, but she tells herself it’s because Clarke is flying so high from the massive air she superman’ed out the back of a closed out wave, and she’s listening to Lincoln’s tips and taking Octavia’s high fives so intently, it just seems there no reason to tell Clarke she doesn’t need to keep her arm wrapped at Lexa’s back. The weekend is almost over. There’s no reason to tell Clarke she doesn’t need to keep sweeping Lexa’s hair away from her face when the wind tries to float it away.

 

Driving further north, they wind their way through a forest reserve and hunt for scenic views. The best yet comes in the form of a protected cove, sandy-beached and popular, due to its proximity to the highway, but breathtaking nonetheless. The kru descends from the road, exploring the base of an 80 foot waterfall making its inexorable return to the sea. Lexa leads Clarke by the hand around cove, splitting off from the group to find tide pools. They are quiet in the journey but Lexa wonder if Clarke is thinking about the [reunion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGuIxFpPqfg) of their lips as much as she is.

“So this is it, pretty much. Our mission complete, right?,” Clarke strips off her t-shirt and comfy sweatpants, and in her bikini approaches a tide pool as big as a bath tub.

“It’s been a fun weekend,” Lexa copies Clarke, even though she’s cold and she’s still got salt water in her ears. 

Together they dip below the gently filling pool, sweeping their hair back behind them as they surface.

Clarke’s face is sunburned, but her eyes are as blue as the sea. Lexa feels the need to be direct.

“We could keep doing this. If you want.”

Clarke smiles and searches the horizon. “I’m that good a girlfriend, am I?”

Lexa lifts her shoulder sassily to her. “Look, are you gonna kiss me or nah?”

The kiss sparks something universal and expansive within Lexa’s chest. Clarke inhales against her cheek and Lexa feels the strength of her own breath lost, her knees weak and toes slipping over the algae-tinted basalt.


	5. Friday: Alternative/Divergent Canon: Sea Salve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa is shot in the head, and during in the turmoil that erupts within Polis, Clarke and Aden flee with her to the Boat People. Under Luna's refuge, the stranded family tries to heal.  
> ~1,400 words

** Sea Salve **

It happens all too fast.

The bullet ricochets, Lexa drops in the doorway, an alarm is sounded. Lexa loses consciousness; Clarke tears bed cloth into strips, wraps bundles of it to Lexa’s head to staunch the bleeding. Lexa will lose her eye, if not her life. 

Within the course of a day, the coalition crumbles, the natblida are gathered, the blockade of Arkadia is halted. Clarke does not leave Lexa’s side. Lexa still breathes, but does not wake.

Polis is in chaos; there are violent arguments in the streets and the halls of the tower. In the vacuum of power, Ontari stalks the other natblida, and when she becomes impatient with Trikru ceremony, she kills three novitiates in the throne room. Titus finally pronounces a coup.

Clarke must flee with Lexa. Aden helps cradle her out of the tower. Indra sneaks them out of Polis.

 

Luna accepts the three onto the rig only after they swear their fight is over. As Lexa remains unconscious for this, their safe harbor is allowed.

Lexa floats adrift in her consciousness for days. When Clarke removes the bandage from Lexa’s head, her shattered eye socket lays hidden beneath puffed skin and stretched stitches, and a red angry scar like a meteorite cuts deep through her hairline. The ricochet spared Lexa’s life, but only just.

Lexa’s other eye is bleary, but the day it focuses on Clarke and Lexa’s hand squeezes Clarke’s, is the day Clarke finally breathes. She cries, and wakes Aden with it, and a moment both heavy and voluminous fills the small cabin.

For the few hours Lexa is awake, Aden will sit to Lexa’s right across from Clarke, and tell Clarke histories and battle lore, and Lexa’s eye shines. Clarke gazes at her when she tells Aden what a passing star system looks like. And then Lexa sleeps, and Clarke will wake her a few hours later to spoon fish stew into her mouth.

Luna washes Clarke’s hair with a clay from the shore that stains it the color of dry earth. Wary of the temporary peace Luna has offered them, Clarke exerts her restlessness in learning rope and knots, but soon she’s pestering the fishermen for news from the mainland. Clarke is warned once by Luna, but Clarke has never been good at obeying rules, so she bends these as easily as a fisherman’s formerly broken-pole after being repaired with paracord.

 

On the shore, Clarke keeps a blue scarf wrapped around her head and hides six blades throughout her coat, and one in her boot. She lurks in tavern shacks and drinks foul sea-wrath from bamboo cups, listening for word of marching armies, of war, of the almost 13th clan. But the most she hears is rumor of exodus from the capital, but by whom and how forcefully remains unknown.

On the rig, Lexa slowly starts to sit up, slowly moves to leaning, eventually stands with the aid of a curly and gnarled mangrove cane. At the railing outside her room, she stares across the open sea and watches her visions play against the horizon. She gets intense headaches. Dreams of the past commanders haunt her, her guilt and impatience wage holy crusades within her. She angers at her broken body, quails at the thought of Ontari welding malevolent power against her clans. She aches for her power and curses the fates.

Clarke stares at the sea as well, but something calms within her when she does. The expanse of blue is both familiar and foreign from the sky, but close up its motion is hypnotizing. She tries to trace it in charcoal, but she finds it’s the light that fascinates her. One day a young woman with shells in her hair shows her how to crush a particular type of seaweed, to release a blue-green dye that dries in shades of azure. Clarke’s fingers become stained with it.

Aden grows quiet. He spends hours at the lower levels of the rig, feet dangling over the edge, spine hunched as his gaze is compelled by the sea below. When Clarke finds him there, she tries to ask after his feelings, but for a boy so molded by the natblida culture, it is difficult for him to separate his lost obligation from his lost sense of self. Aden says he worries for the other novitiates, if they escaped Polis safely. He shakes with submerged rage for the honorable deaths that were stolen from Elija, Kassia, and Liiahn. He vows his vengeance to Clarke and the sea, and all Clarke can do is press her palm into his shoulder.

 

The culture of the boat people is tranquil, artful and ingenious. So it is a big deal when Lexa rages in the middle of a market, something dark and howling clawing within her half-bandaged head. Her cane dismantles a vendor’s tent, his casual indifference to her riling her so unstable she nearly stabs at his neck. But Aden is there, his hand at her chest as if to slow her rapid heart, and Clarke steps between a breathless Lexa and angry salvage dealer. Clarke dropsa handful of dried goji berries on his table, her recent income for disinfecting a fisherman’s staph foot. Eyes narrowed, she takes the knife Lexa was bargaining for and says, “You’re lucky she didn’t just stab you.”

“She shouldn’t be armed, these are for scaling only!” the vendor spits back. His collection is meager and discolored with sea salt.

“He’s right.” Luna arrives. “She is safe here, she does not need weapons.” 

“ _Ai laik Heda,”_ Lexa growls… But she remains breathless, her eye going unfocused and misty. Clarke’s jaw tightens but she hands Luna the scale blade and steps quickly to help Aden and Lexa leave the market.

 

“I am the Commander!” Lexa roars at Clarke inside their cabin. 

She deflates when Clarke remains quiet. “I stand, so I must fight.”

She cringes at the uncomfortable knowledge that both her eyes are welling with tears. “How do I fight when everything is so broken?”

Clarke offers her not an answer, but a back door. An escape. Clarke holds in her hand a small scalpel kit, and an old tin box.

“Titus gave me this when we left. He told me what to do. And Murphy told me what it is.”Lexa holds the box in her hands, her thumb sliding the cover back and forth distractingly. “It’s just a chip, Lexa; a machine. I can try to take it out.”

Clarke wraps her hands over Lexa’s, “If you’re done, then so am I.”

Aden turns away from the window to the sea, and watches Lexa make her decision. Brightly colored hope inflates itself beneath the gravestone gray clouds in Lexa’s mind. The freshness of a new reality allows a seed to plant, leaves of a new life fluttering in a much less turbulent wind than that through which Lexa, and Clarke, and all their people have been living.

Lexa cannot extinguish the desire to share that seed with all her people. She is restless in this calm kingdom on the sea, but she sees how it works, she wonders at the trust and community that people build when they finally put down their weapons.

“We give them the chip, let them fight over it.” Clarke says, bringing Lexa’s gaze back to her.

Lexa smiles sadly. “We could not leave our people to such a stupid fate.” Lexa closes the tin box firmly and gives it back to Clarke. Clarke returns the same smile, “So we will suffer gladly for our fools?”

“We show them what peace can be, we will turn their hearts.”Lexa’s fingers grasp at Clarke’s chin and jaw, bringing her closer, “As you did mine.” 

Hope floats within Lexa again, but instead of blissful escape, it swirls with new energy in her bones, new fire in her blood.

 

Clarke’s cloak swishes dramatically when she enters the shore tavern. The barkeep lifts his eyes and alerts her to the man swaddled in a turban near the back corner. Clarke nods her thanks, drops goji berries at his bar, and approaches the man.

He pushes his turban and scarf back from his face, and Clarke addresses him. “What news, Murphy?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing. You didn’t bring the chip?”

“Lexa is still the Commander, and the clans still need her. But first, we need allies. We need you to bring Indra here.”

Murphy shakes his head with judgement. “You’re letting a perfectly good New Life just slip through your fingers.”

 

Winding through trade routes and spinning around village camp fires, a legend is told of Wanheda, who commanded Death to spare Heda Lexa. A prophecy is born, that Heda Lexa will return, to free her people from Azgeda oppression and greed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway if Carl (CAAARRL) can live through it, so can Lexa.
> 
> I like this one and might continue it. Errbody loves a good legend n' prophecy, right??


End file.
